A Lunchtime Conversation
by Joodiff
Summary: Pre-series. Grace discusses her future with an old friend, but will she take the advice offered? Complete. Birthday present for Gemenied. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _Happy birthday, Gemenied - I hope you like this little present! xx_

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 **A Lunchtime Conversation**

by Joodiff

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"Peter Boyd?" Emma says, and I nod, not sure if I'm imagining the disapproving undertone I detect in her voice. She looks at me for a long moment, her intent grey eyes seeming to stare straight into me, and then she says, "Don't do it, Grace. If you have any sense at all, don't do it."

Her vehemence surprises me, and I can't stop a puzzled frown forming in response. She's not the first person I've mentioned the matter to, and it's not the first time the name associated with it has been greeted negatively – and I'm beginning to suspect that it won't be the last – but the tone and intensity of her reply surprises me. Picking up my wine glass, I point out, "It's a great opportunity."

"Only if it's a success."

"Granted," I'm forced to admit. It's one of the things that's been playing on my mind since the very first tentative approach was made via the Home Office. The whole forthcoming venture is experimental, the funding for it strictly time-limited – but at least no-one's tried to hide that from me. A young waiter passes our table, his attention all on the cluster of pretty young women seated at the best-appointed of the restaurant's window tables. I doubt he notices us at all, the way he's focusing on them. Why would he? We're both 'women of a certain age', and therefore largely invisible to the majority of men under fifty. Or even older. Sad but true. Returning to the subject under discussion, I hear myself saying, "Well, I rather liked him."

Emma snorts. "What a surprise."

I don't need to ask her what she means – we've known each other for decades, after all. Since we were both enthusiastic young undergraduates away from home for the very first time, in fact. I'm trying hard not to remember that it was Emma who told me in no uncertain terms not to marry Alan. And just how right it turned out she was to do so. I attempt what I hope passes for a nonchalant shrug. "So it seems he's got something of a reputation – so what?"

The look she gives me in return is both scathing and reflective. I have no doubt that she's considering any number of my previous follies, is trying to decide whether or not it's worth bothering to even try explaining her objections. I'm fairly sure she believes – wrongly – that I never listen to her advice, much less ever consider acting upon it. After a moment more she says, "He's a loose cannon, Grace. And that's the nicest way I can think of to put it. There are only two possible reasons why they've chosen him to command this new unit of theirs – one, that they already expect it to be an unmitigated disaster, and they see him as the ideal candidate to take the flak for it, or two, that it's going to be such a difficult and controversial project that they know no sane person would ever touch it with a ten-foot bargepole."

Both possibilities have already occurred to me, given the bits and pieces information I have gleaned over the last few days. I take a sip of wine – a rather good Merlot – and watch the waiter as he flirts outrageously with the laughing women by the window. They are enjoying every moment of it, and I briefly find myself trying to recall what it was like to be that young, that cheerful and untroubled; that comfortable with being the centre of such concentrated male attention. Then I think about the tall, well-dressed man I had a short working lunch with last week and I say, "He's sharp. Open to new ideas. I like that."

"Oh, God." Emma leans back in her chair and gazes at me again with that same intelligent, insightful stare. "You've already made up your mind, haven't you?"

"No," I tell her, but I know the instant denial won't convince either of us. She waits. And waits. It takes me several moments to bring myself to concede, "Well, not quite."

"Hm," she says after another long pause. Then, "Well, I suppose you want me to tell you what little I know?"

"Please."

Her exaggerated sigh is far louder than it needs to be. "According to Verity – my old line manager? – he did two years of Law at King's, then left suddenly to join the Met. Became a detective at some point in the late 'seventies – and he's been a constant thorn in their side ever since. Has his own ideas about things. Doesn't toe the party line, doesn't play well with others. Remember Maggie O'Connell?"

I assume it's a rhetorical question: just about everyone who had anything at all to do with law enforcement in London back in the 'eighties remembers – or at least knew of – the fearsome and controversial Detective Inspector Margaret O'Connell. I nod. "Oh, yes. I never worked with her myself, but…"

"He was her DS. For _five_ _years_. That should tell you everything you need to know about him."

I can't help but be intrigued. When the name 'Mad Maggie' was bandied about in police station canteens and locker rooms, it wasn't our erstwhile Prime Minister who was being referred to. No, it was the ferocious, dogged DI O'Connell, who originally made her name arresting both of the Stratford-based Macdonald twins. Single-handed. I take another sip of wine. "Impressive."

"Not quite the word I was thinking of," Emma retorts. "But, anyway, _this_ is the man they've chosen to put in charge of this new cold case thing? The one who somehow managed to survive – and apparently _thrive_ _on_ – five years of being shouted at by Mad Maggie? No wonder people say he's absolutely bloody certifiable. Don't do it, Grace."

When I was a child, my father used to say that the very best way to get me to do something was to sternly tell me _not_ to do it. People who didn't know me always thought he was joking. I nearly smile as I recall the number of times he shook his head in despair at me. The waiter bustles back past us, preening like a peacock. He looks vaguely Mediterranean. And not a day over twenty-five. I put my glass down. "He's divorced, I hear?"

Emma narrows her eyes at me. It's not a good sign. "I know you've always had a bit of a thing for bad boys, Grace, but…"

What she isn't saying is what's really interesting me. Turning the tables, I subject her to an inquisitive stare of my own and challenge, "So, what _aren't_ you telling me, Emma?"

A slight flush rises in her cheeks, and I immediately have a pretty damn good idea what the answer is.

"Don't give me that look," she grumbles, her tone petulant. "Oh, for heaven's sake… it was at one of Amanda's parties, if you must know."

I don't mean to smirk. It's not becoming at my – _our_ – age. But I know Emma just as well as she knows me. "I see."

"He was just a guy I got talking to." Defensive. Amusingly so.

I am briefly cast back in time. Mini-skirts. _The Beatles_. Smoke-filled rooms full of earnest and hormonal students. This time I don't even attempt to prevent my smirk. "Richard Henderson."

" _Don't_ ," she warns me with a scowl. Clearly she hasn't forgotten the incident in question, either. "Anyway, nothing actually happened."

I can't resist. "With Richard, or with Peter Boyd?"

" _Both_." The scowl becomes a fierce glare. "Anyway, we're not talking about _me_ , Grace, we're talking about _you_."

"How did you find out?" I ask, curious enough to weather her glower. "Who he was, I mean?"

She grimaces. "Ran into him at a case conference about six weeks later. Afterwards, Verity told me all about him. Seems he's not renowned for taking a sympathetic approach towards petty criminals in general, and addicts in particular. She told me that he even frog-marched his own son down to the local nick when he caught him in possession. Imagine doing that to your own child."

I don't think I'm as appalled by the idea as she expects me to be. "Tough love?" I suggest.

"Psychologist," she accuses.

"Social worker," I retort, and we grin at each other for a moment as if we're carefree students with the world at our feet again. Sobering, I shake my head. "It's not about him, though, is it? It's about what an interesting and beneficial career move it could be for me."

"If," she reminds me, "it's a success."

I think about Peter Boyd and the way his eyes – deep and intense – blazed with barely-suppressed enthusiasm and excitement as he outlined his bold plans for the Met's new specialist investigative unit. That sort of passion and drive is infectious, no doubt about it. I say, "I think that if _anyone_ can make it work, he can."

Emma nods. "Much as it pains me to say it, I have to agree with you. But you have to admit it's a leap into the unknown."

"How long have I been saying that I'm ready for a change?" I inquire with a heavy sigh of my own. I change tack. "This multi-disciplinary approach he's so keen on – it's very forward-thinking."

"Oh, come on, it's far from a new thing, Grace."

Stung by the disparaging note in her voice, I say, "Combining a variety of experts into one central police-based team, though – that's novel. At least in this country. Everyone working together out of one building? Being part of an investigation from day one instead of being brought in later as an outsider? Seeing things through from beginning to end? Getting to be a part of the whole process?"

"Having a copper as a boss?" she suggests, her tone suggesting she's far from impressed by the idea.

I've thought about that, too. I shrug. "Technically, I'll be working for the Home Office."

" _Technically_ , maybe."

"Meaning?"

"Are you really going to be happy being bossed around by a bunch of cynical and sceptical detectives every minute of every day?"

"You think I can't hold my own?"

"I didn't say that." Emma sighs again, but with far less deliberate emphasis. "I just know you, Grace. Where were _you_ when Peter Boyd was providing the muscle for Maggie O'Connell? I'll tell you, shall I? You were busy getting arrested at protest meetings and anti-government rallies."

"Oh, come on!" I object. It seems like an entire lifetime ago. "I was never actually arrested."

"More by luck than judgement, as I recall." She watches as I pick up my glass again, and then she says, "Forget 'not quite' – you _have_ made your mind up, haven't you?"

"Almost," I concede. It's a relief to say it aloud. As if voicing the words will help me to let go of the very last of my lingering concerns. Then, only because we're such old friends, I risk musing aloud, "Handsome man."

"Oh, indubitably," she agrees, expression deadpan. It doesn't last. She gives me a wicked grin and a sly, knowing look. "You're _so_ transparent, Grace."

"I don't know what you mean," I say with as much lofty dignity as I can project into the words. But I do. My love-life didn't begin and end with Alan, and no-one knows that better than Emma. I shudder to think how many conversations we've shared about the men in our lives over the years.

"You fancy him." She's still grinning, every bit as provocative and mischievous as she was at eighteen.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I complain. "Don't be ridiculous – we're not teenagers anymore, you know."

"You do, though, don't you?"

She knows me far, far too well. Not able to completely deny it and be believed, I offer a grudging, "Maybe."

"'Maybe'?"

"I barely know him," I remind her. "We had lunch, Emma, that's _all_. A very quick and business-like lunch, at that."

"So it's just the job description that excites you, is it?"

"Stop it," I scold. It doesn't matter how many years we remain friends, she's still able to thoroughly exasperate me far faster than anyone else I know. "It really _is_ a great career opportunity."

"And you're also just a little bit flattered that the unquestionably very attractive DCI is trying to head-hunt you?"

"If the initial roll-out is a success, they're going to make him a Super."

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm fairly sure I'm not the only forensic psychologist on the list of people he's approaching," I tell her, though admittedly he didn't actually say as much during that interesting and rather-too-short lunchtime meeting.

Emma raises her perfectly-sculpted eyebrows at me. "But what you _are_ , Grace, is one of the very best offender profilers in the country."

"I wouldn't go quite that far," I say, not at all comfortable with the description. "Besides, profiling would only be part of my role."

" _Your_ role?"

I glare at her again, embarrassed to be so easily caught out. "You know what I mean."

She's silent for a moment. Then she asks, "Do you want to know what I _really_ think?"

"Of course," I say, but I'm really not sure that I do.

"Call him and tell him you've thought about it and you're not interested," she says. "Seriously, this whole thing has huge-fucking-disaster written all over it. Trying to solve ancient cases no-one else has been able to unravel on a budget of tuppence under the aegis of a man who's caused so much trouble he's been pushed from pillar to post ever since O'Connell ran off into the sunset with whichever of her underlings caught her fancy at the time?"

"Do you think all those stories about her are true?" I ask, momentarily distracted.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Well, given the evidence, I really don't think she picked her almost exclusively _male_ team solely for what was between their ears, do you? And I told you – stop changing the bloody subject. Get to know him better if you want to; sleep with him if you really must – but for God's sake don't go and work for him."

" _With_ him."

"You keep on believing that if it makes you happy."

"Well, anyway," I say, trying not to sound as irritable as I'm starting to feel, "I don't even know if he's seriously considering me for the job, do I?"

"He'd be mad not to be. Then again, if half what they say about him is true…" Again, Emma shakes her head, but this time she's also gazing at me in a thoughtful, reflective sort of way. "Oh, he'll offer it to you. Because you're the best currently available – "

"Thanks," I interrupt, not attempting to hide my sarcasm, but she ignores me.

" – and because by all accounts he likes to surround himself with people who are just as… individual… as he is."

I regard her with suspicion, trying to decide whether or not I've just been insulted. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I'm sure you can work it out," she says, voice dry, before continuing, "…and when he does, you'll accept it instantly because you've never been able to resist a charming scoundrel in an expensive suit."

"You make me sound so shallow," I grumble. Though I have to admit that sadly there's some truth to the accusation. I think about Alan again for a moment, and everything negative Emma had to say about him right up until the moment I set off for the church and my new life as a married woman. I console myself with the thought that if I'd listened to her, I wouldn't have had Heather and Ed. Though now they're both away at university…

Gathering my thoughts, I finish the last fruity dregs of the Merlot and then I say, "It could be my last big chance to do something completely different before I really start thinking about retirement."

"Retirement?" she scoffs. " _You_? As if _that's_ ever going to happen. Why not go back to clinical work for a bit? That should be more than enough of a challenge for you."

"No. It just doesn't interest me anymore." If there's one thing I know for certain, it's that.

Emma pulls a face. "You're far too fond of poking around in the minds of serial killers, Grace; you know that, don't you?"

"Actually," I reply, deliberately breezy, "I've only had direct dealings with three or four. They're far rarer than Hollywood would have you believe. Though – "

"No," she says, holding up a warning hand to me, "I don't want to know. I had nightmares for _weeks_ after you insisted on telling us all about your eye-gouging mad axeman over dinner at Caroline's last year. Oh, go and play with your handsome policeman if you want to. God knows it's about time you had some fun in your life."

"I wouldn't exactly call working fulltime on cold cases _fun_ , Emma."

"That's not what I meant, and you damn well know it."

"Are you impugning my professional integrity, Ms Teague?" I ask, straight-faced. It doesn't work – she's far too sharp not to know when I'm joking. Glancing at my watch, I say, "Didn't you say you had a meeting this afternoon…?"

"Yes," she says, looking round for the young waiter. "Child Protection Team in Tower Hamlets. Particularly grim case of sustained abuse and neglect. Do you want to split the bill…?"

We say our farewells out in the street, and promise to catch up with each other again soon. We probably will, too, now we are both officially single women again. As I watch her hurry away, my phone begins to ring in the deepest, darkest depths of my handbag. Some kind of strange sense of intuition strikes me as I answer it with a calm, composed, "Doctor Grace Foley."

"Doctor Foley," a deep, well-modulated male voice says. "Peter Boyd."

I'm not surprised, but a slight, very distinct tingle runs up and down the length of my spine. I'm not sure if it's apprehension or excitement. "DCI Boyd. Hello."

"Hi," he says. "Look, I'll come straight to the point, Doctor. If you're interested, I'd like to set up a formal meeting to discuss – "

"When?" I ask, and instantly regret sounding so eager.

"Friday?" he suggests. "If that's good for you, I'll get my DS to give you a call tomorrow to work out the details."

"Fine," I say, well-aware that it's just a bit too late to feign a polite level of good-old-fashioned British indifference. I want to ask him if he's offering me the job. Hell, I want to ask him when we can get started and what our first case will be.

"Good," he replies, sounding rather more pleased than I might have expected. "And it's just Boyd, by the way."

"Grace," I prompt, picturing him sitting opposite me last week. Well-built; late forties or very early fifties. Striking dark eyes. Extremely good-looking in a rugged, world-weary sort of way.

"Eh?" A tiny pause. "Oh, I see. Well, _Grace_ , I'll look forward to seeing you on Friday."

"Me, too." Then I realise that I must sound like a complete fool. Not quite the impression I want him to have of me. "I'll look forward to seeing you, too, I mean."

His chuckle is deep and easy. "Good. Well, now we've sorted that out…"

Emma's right, I realise as I end the call and put my phone away. I've already made up my mind. And I think Peter Boyd has, too.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
